


Bela Lugosi Has Nothing On You

by TheSoupDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...but Mycroft certainly is..., Actually - when it comes to kitchens -, Greg is not enjoying Hallowe’en..., Hallowe'en (U.K.), M/M, Mycroft is also extremely skilled in the kitchen, my headcanon Mystrade seem to rather enjoy spending time in them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-21 08:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon
Summary: This story was written for the A Halloween 13 collection, organised by the lovely Vulpesmellifera. When I saw her idea for a Hallowe’en collection advertised on tumblr, there was also a linked post with it giving the option to use a prompt generator (created by Mottlemoth) for inspiration. It was called the ‘autumn prompt generator’, and the genius thing gave me this little beauty on my very first go:This story takes placein the dark.You must mentionan umbrella,use the word‘tangle’,and include this line of dialogue:“Come here.”Well. Who needs more than that to start writing a Hallowe’en Mystrade story?! (P.s. I have taken aslightliberty with the line of dialogue by adding a few words to it…I hope that’s allowable…but I do think you’ll like the extra words…!)





	Bela Lugosi Has Nothing On You

**Author's Note:**

> Not content with just being a beta-reader extraordinaire, StarsAndStitches has also made me the most _fantastic_ cover for this story!! Enjoy it below in all its beauty...(now that she has instructed me on how to add it to AO3!!!)

Greg was so fed up. Work was dull; just endless paperwork and slow-moving, crappy cases. Someone had made a complaint against him, although the man in question had made a complaint about most of Greg’s colleagues at some time or another, and Greg would desperately like to complain about _him_ being a complete wanker and wasting police time, but....there we go, he thought. On top of it all, the weather was dire - had been for days - a thick heavy fog, morning and night, with an especially hard chill in the evenings that got right into your back and knelt on it. Rubbish, basically. Still, he thought, thinking positively, at least tonight Mycroft was cooking.

He got off the tube and made an effort up the dank steps from the station, out into the freezing air, bundling up his coat and pulling his scarf right up over his nose. At least it wasn’t raining. _Well, not yet,_ he added grimly, thinking of the fifteen minute walk from the station to home.

On the more residential streets as he got closer to home, there was (amazingly) no rain, but there _were_ kids everywhere, enjoying the so-called celebrations. _’Celebrations,’_ he thought grumpily, his hands pushed deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. ‘Bloody _celebrations?!_ What’s to celebrate? A night when all the ghosts are supposed to walk the earth? Great. What fun.’ When he was a kid there was no such thing as celebrating Hallowe’en. You were lucky if your next door neighbour opened the door to you and grudgingly offered you a stale biscuit. Even then it all had to be pre-arranged between your mums so as not to be making a nuisance of yourself. Now kids simply saw it as an excuse to dress up, knock on doors and demand sweets. Like every other day, then, really. Except maybe for the knocking on doors. He realised with that grumpy old man thought that he really _was_ in a bad mood, and he’d better lose it and cheer up before he got home. They had always promised not to bring work home if it was the bad mood kind. Plus it was more special tonight because Mycroft was cooking at Greg’s house again - this was all thanks to the fact that Greg had endured a stint of horribly late nights this week whilst Mycroft had enjoyed a very unusual half day off work today after getting back from Prague at lunchtime.

As Greg turned the corner onto his own street, he was thankful to see that there were very few children milling about, only a small group made up of one very tall adult and five very small children. They were close to his end of the street, but walking down it, away from him. However, even at this distance, Greg immediately recognised the adult with them. “Evening, Roge! Nice wings!” Greg called out to the man, just as the group gathered and stopped to cross the road onto the other side. Roger turned quickly, looking to see who had hailed him, but he didn’t stop walking, carried along across the road in the tide of excitable children. He was dressed in an dark anorak with a pair of extremely visible white fairy wings over the top, attached by glittery elastic straps round his shoulders like he was wearing a waistcoat. Realising it was Greg, he stuck his arm straight up, fingers spread in a blokey wave, making the wings flap. “Alright, mate!” he called out cheerfully as the group reached the other side of the street. “Where’s your trick or treat sack?”  
Greg snorted laughter. “Indoors, nice an’ safe from Sadie!” Sadie was six, one of Roger’s daughters, and the owner of the wings. Greg had often seen her wearing them before, but tonight she was dressed not as a super-fairy but as a normal superhero, sensibly wearing her duffel coat and hat over the top of her flimsy blue and red costume.  
_“Hey!”_ she called out with a touch of wounded outrage, and then admonished him with, “I was saving you a Twix!” She didn’t stop either, walking backwards for a moment as she spoke, in order to keep up with her older and younger siblings as they carried on ahead down the road. She didn’t want to stop and miss out on any door-knocking.  
“You keep it, darlin’!” called Greg louder after her, “I’m only teasin’ yer!” and he added to her father, “Catch you later, Roge!”  
“Righto!” Roger replied and then he called back over his shoulder, “Oh yeah, nearly forgot! You and Mycroft still on for squash on Wednesday?” Roger and the children had reached the next lot of brightly lit and decorated houses where the children were gathering at the first garden gate.  
“Oh yeah, definitely!” Greg returned. “If I can convince ‘im to keep at it!”  
Roger laughed. “He’s definitely improving!” he replied. And then, “Don’t tell him I said that!” he added, making Greg laugh. The children had progressed down the path to a front door festooned with fake cobwebs, tiny white fairy lights and with large paper bats hanging over the porch. Someone knocked loudly and then Greg heard Roger instruct the children quickly and in a low voice, “All together now and remember your manners!” just in time before the door opened and all the children chorused shrilly and gleefully, _”Trick or treeeeat!”_

Greg smiled to himself. He liked Sadie. She was a cheerful, feisty little thing. And they shared a joint love of Twixes, which she found highly amusing and she would often save one for him, posting it through his letterbox as she walked past on her way to school with her siblings and dad. Well, he thought, that little exchange had done just the trick to cheer him up. Thank God for kids and Hallowe’en, eh...but then he was close enough to see his house and the front window, which he would have expected to be lit (if Mycroft was in there cooking), and it was not. The house was in complete darkness. Concerned, he speeded his pace and checked his watch. If Mycroft wasn’t there, then where was he? He found his door keys with one hand while he got his phone out from his back pocket with the other, but there was no text from Mycroft to say he was running late. He turned the key and pushed the front door open and now, from the doorstep, he could see a gentle but unalarming glow coming from the kitchen. _Odd._ But he could smell dinner, and it smelt incredible. “M?” he called out cautiously. “What’s with the darkness?”  
“In here...” came Mycroft’s voice from the kitchen, but it was oddly vague and quiet.  
Greg reached out for the hall light but before his hand could touch it, Mycroft said quickly, “Don’t switch the light on...”  
Greg frowned and dropped his hand, striding down the dark hallway in confusion. “What’s going on?” he asked as he reached the doorway of the very dimly lit kitchen, but as he rounded the doorframe, he saw exactly what was going on. It was like walking into a seance.

Mycroft was seated at the far side of the large kitchen table, facing Greg as he walked in and in the chair furthest from the door. The room was almost all in darkness; the only vague light filtering into the room from the nearest streetlight outside the front door and a small stub of a candle in a glass saucer on the table. It was guttering, and so low it was just about to go out - a fact which became clear to Greg was Mycroft’s exact intention when he looked at Greg then leaned forward and blew gently and the light was suddenly extinguished. Without the light of the tiny candle, the room was plunged into an even deeper darkness.  
Greg snorted. “What are you playin’ at?” he asked, stupefied, and stepped over to his left to reach the kitchen light switch on the wall. Even in the almost black he knew where it was. “Why are the lights off?”  
“Leave them!” Mycroft said, commandingly.  
His voice was really odd. Greg stopped reaching for the light. “What—?!”  
“I know you’re going towards the light switch. Don’t. Leave them off.”  
“What? What the f—what’s going on?”  
The rattle of a matchbox and the scrape of a match on sandpaper resulted in a small warm ball of light which illuminated the answer. It was Mycroft’s Halloween surprise.

A candlelit dinner for two.

The table was dressed beautifully for dinner, with - Greg now saw - a dark red tablecloth (definitely not Greg’s), shining cutlery (unlikely to be Greg’s Ikea stuff unless it had been very highly polished) and a short, squat white vase with a pot of shiny, variegated ivy in it. Neither of these items looked like Greg’s.

Mycroft had, this time, reached up and lit a tall red candle in the centre of the table, in a plain white candle holder which actually _was_ Greg’s but looked totally different and frankly stunning, set off as it was by the long red candle. The height of the new candle gave a very unfamiliar view of the room, and as Greg’s gaze travelled from his assessment of the table and the candle to his partner’s face, it was only then that he saw what Mycroft was wearing. His burgeoning grin of delight at his partner’s surprise froze on his face and his mouth dropped open.

Mycroft had adopted a pose which Greg often saw on Sherlock, elbows on the table, index fingers steepled to his lips and he was looking at Greg over the top of them with a dark, expectant gaze. Greg had seen that pose before, but what Mycroft was wearing was not something that Greg saw very often though. Had ever seen before in real life, actually, _ever;_ as opposed to the frequent wear it might get from the lead actor of a Hammer House of Horror film.

It was a cape. Like, an actual black vampire’s cape, with a deep, turned up and slightly pointed collar and with a large silver wolf’s head clasp at the throat and everything.  
“Oh my God, hello Dracula, where the fuck did you get _that?!”_ Greg breathed in a rush, astonished.  
“You’ll never guess,” said Mycroft, dropping the steepled fingers pose and relaxing a little, pleased that his surprise had gone so well. “I actually had it made years ago for a costume ball.”  
Greg spluttered. _“Fuck!”_ he said. “You don’t do nothin’ by halves, do yer? Bela Lugosi has nothing on you!”  
Mycroft seemed absurdly pleased by that remark. “Oh! Do you think so?” he said, preeningly, stroking down the edge of the cape. Then, in an elegant gesture, he slipped his arm fully under the edge of the cape and held it, bringing it up like a bat’s wing to cover the lower half of his face. Fully in character now, he glowered at Greg over the top of it, like the original silver screen Dracula himself.  
Greg burst out laughing, but not meanly; there was no malice in it - it was a laugh of absolute joyful delight, as he then made explicitly clear. _“Fuck!”_ he said again, “That’s fuckin’ excellent! You make a _fantastic_ Dracula! And hot too, M, _Jesus!_ Look at you; you hot, silky bastard! Mmmm! What’s it made from, _is_ it silk?”  
**“Come here** and find out,” purred Bela Lugosi, masquerading as Mycroft Holmes in Greg’s dark kitchen. And Greg grinned and went over to stroke his cape.

It was certainly _not_ made of some cheap, nylon, joke-shop material. It was thick, midnight black velvet on the outside and with a sumptuous inky blue-black silk lining. It seemed to reflect the soft candlelight like oil on dark water; it was absolutely huge and Mycroft had draped it elegantly across his shoulders so he was totally wrapped in it. It looked bloody expensive and it pooled elegantly on the floor around his chair. Underneath the cape, Mycroft had further dressed for the occasion in one of his black three piece suits, with a white shirt and a black silk tie.

Greg felt a stirring in his loins as he bent and finally kissed Mycroft _hello._ The kiss was good, but the cape over Mycroft’s shoulder and under Greg’s hand was subtly sensual. Halfway through what started as a quick firm peck of a greeting , Greg decided he wanted a bit of a squeeze as well. He released Mycroft’s mouth. “Mmmm. Stand up, Vlad,” he said.  
Obligingly, Mycroft “Dracula” Holmes stood up. He was always taller than Greg, of course, but tonight, in his costume, and wearing the glowering expression of the Prince of Darkness, he seemed to _tower_ above Greg. It was partly the cape, Greg thought; partly that and partly his ability to assume a subtly superior persona, one that made him seem to appear even taller than he actually was. Greg stepped right up against him and lifted his chin to kiss him. Mycroft swept the cape around them both, encasing Greg, making Greg laugh into the kiss. “Mmmm, _God,”_ moaned Greg in delight. “This is great! An’ so _unlike_ you!! What made yer decide to dress up?” He ran his hands up the sides of Mycroft’s body.  
Mycroft smiled. “Let’s just say I was carried away with the occasion....” he leaned down to kiss Greg again.  
Suddenly Greg knew. _“Bollocks!”_ he snorted cheerfully, realising the truth. “You found it when you were lookin’ for your old ‘Wind in the Willows’ book in your parents loft last weekend, didn’t you?”  
Mycroft positively grinned. “Mmm, my my, they don’t call you detective inspector for nothing, do they?” he murmured suavely, stroking down Greg’s back.  
Greg moved his right leg so he could rub his upper thigh encouragingly against Mycroft’s nether regions. “No, they don’t,” he said, his hand sliding to his lover’s tight black suited arse and squeezing. “You found the hot funeral suit in there as well, didn’t yer?” he said.  
Mycroft laughed at the description of one of his most expensive suits. He had been rather pleased that it still fitted him. “I’m sure you’re well overdue for promotion with all this overtime detective work,” he murmured, lowering his head to kiss Greg’s neck, wrapping the cape tighter around them both. “Let me take you under my wings....” he intoned in a voice that sounded spectacularly close to Christopher Lee. Mycroft had grown up with a deeply secret addiction to the Hammer House of Horror films too. Eventually, Greg broke the kiss and from the depths of Mycroft’s capey embrace said “Oh, _fuck,_ look at this!! You bloody well _are_ the Lord of Darkness! You’ve got me right under your vampire’s spell...I wanna **tangle** myself up in you and not get free!” He brought his arms under Mycroft’s where he was holding the cape around them and squeezed his lover to him.  
“Tangle away...” responded the Lord of Darkness darkly, returning the discreet thigh rub of the nether regions that Greg had just applied to him.  
Greg’s hands slid down and grabbed Mycroft’s arse with both hands. He pulled him in tighter. Suddenly he said, “Ooh _cor,_ Mycroft! Is that your **umbrella** handle down there or are you just pleased to see me?”  
Mycroft grinned. “It isn’t my umbrella handle, and don’t doubt for a moment that I am always extremely pleased to see you...but look, my dear, dinner is quite literally ready _now_ and I would hate for the Szekelyalmas to be overdone. It’s a traditional Transylvanian - well, _Romanian_ \- dish. You’ll like it - pork with apples and in a cider cream sauce. And with a not so Transylvanian - or indeed even Romanian - blood orange and dark chocolate torte for pudding.”  
Greg made a noise of pure gastronomic delight. “My _God!_ Sounds absolutely amazin’! M, you’ve gone all out on this ‘Allowe’en dinner, ‘aven’t yer?” smiled Greg, stroking down the side of his face and reaching up to give him a quick peck on the lips. Mycroft smiled. “I do my best,” he murmured suavely, arching an eyebrow.  
Greg grinned and kissed him quick again. “Come on then, let’s eat. I’m starvin’.” He found that he was. And not just for dinner. He squeezed Mycroft’s arse one last time and then let go of him.

While they were eating, the letter box went stealthily. It didn’t sound like someone was knocking to have the door opened to them, Greg thought, looking at Mycroft who was looking at him in puzzlement, more like they were—and then something was pushed slowly through the letterbox and landed with a light rustling thump on the doormat. “Trick or treat!” called a shrill and very familiar child’s voice, overcome with amusement, and then there was a disappearing giggle as the child ran back down Greg’s garden path, all stealth forgotten. They both heard Roger say distantly from the garden gate, “All done?”  
Greg grinned at Mycroft. “And there’s the Twix from Sadie we can scoff with our coffee!” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> (In case you need to know, a Twix is a kind of chocolate bar with soft caramel toffee and a shortbread biscuit base. It comes in a packet in two long sticks, so is great for sharing with your vampire lover...or anyone else who happens to be around. I'm with Greg and Sadie on this one. Twixes are my favourite too....)


End file.
